


Who's Rosie?

by LondonLioness



Series: The Experience Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Carries on from Do Over Done Over, Character absence not death, Do not have to read previous story, PTSD Sherlock, Precognition, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:46:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21568606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: Three weeks ago, my brother dosed me with a concoction created by the scientists at Baskerville. The purpose was to induce precognition, and indeed it did. But unexpectedly, instead of a vivid dream or vision, I experienced a full five years lived in such detail that when the state dissipated, I thought I had traveled back in time. Readjusting is difficult, for many of my experiences were intense. But worst of all is a crushing sense of loss.Oh, how I miss Rosie!
Series: The Experience Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1513652
Comments: 13
Kudos: 33





	Who's Rosie?

**Author's Note:**

> So this continues the Experience Verse, where Sherlock experienced the years of 2010-2015 as a precognitive vision. The story will stand alone, but you may want to read Do Over Done Over. (Of course, you should read every word I write, but that's just my ego talking.) Fair warning: as usual with me, there's some heavy angst ahead, and sorry not sorry, I can't deliver a happy ending on this one. Grab a Kleenex and prepare to wallow.

My brother, Mycroft, is not known for familial affection. He has kept our sister, Eurus, a dangerous psychopath, secreted while making use of her prodigious talents in seeing patterns. He has similarly tried to both contain and use me. The most egregious example of this is that three weeks ago, he dosed me with a substance concocted by scientists from Baskerville, a military research facility. The purpose was to induce precognition, and indeed it did: not as dreams or visions, but as an Experience of five full years lived. From one point of view, the experiment was a fantastic success: I brought back information that kept my sister secure, dismantled an international criminal organisation, exposed a serial killer, and enabled an influential woman to escape a blackmailer's clutches. 

From my point of view, though, the cost was horrific. The memory trace laid down was not that of a dream, which largely dissipates upon waking, but of real life. Intellectually, I understood that it had never happened, but the memories were exactly the same as if it had, so I felt horribly disoriented, as if I had been displaced in time. Had those five years been mundane, it might have been easier, but what I "remembered" was intense, and frequently painful. I am probably the only person in history to suffer PTSD from things that never took place. 

The hardest of all the mixed feelings I have in the wake of the Experience is a crushing sense of loss. In that non-history, John had married, and to call the relationship stormy is an understatement so gross as to be almost comical. Mary (not her real name, but the one we knew her by) turned out to be a mercenary assassin, an evil woman whose machinations nearly destroyed both John and me. Their union did, however, produce a child, a blonde, blue-eyed cherub they named Rosie. Thinking it over, I can only be happy John will never experience the anguish he went through in that alternate time-line. 

But, oh, I miss Rosie.

How to explain being so besotted with someone else's child? I don't understand it myself, but when I saw that little bundle in her proud dad's arms, my heart nearly leapt out of my chest. I knew instantly this was someone I would die for; someone I would lay waste to entire worlds to protect. When John moved back into 221B after Mary's death, Rosie in tow, I thought I would burst from happiness. There was such simple joy in caring for her, and it was fascinating to watch her learn about the world for the first time. 

But then the Experience ended and I woke up in a world five years younger than I, and Rosie is lost to me even more completely than if she had actually lived and died. There is no photograph, there is no stray baby sock to find behind the washer; I cannot even share reminisces of her with her own father. All I have are memories, and even those are false.

My therapist, Dr. McAree, is working hard to help me process the Experience and re-orient myself to the reality of 2010. He has given me a mantra to use when the false memories oppress me: "It did not happen; it will not happen." I had given him a thumbnail sketch of the Experience, so he had me practise by throwing out random events and having me recite the mantra: 

"Undercover mission." 

"Did not happen; will not happen." 

"Getting shot." 

"Did not happen; will not happen." 

"Drugs relapse." 

"Did not happen; will not happen." 

"Rosie." 

And it was as if my tongue literally cleaved to the roof of my mouth. I could not say that; could not deny her. 

"Sherlock?" McAree prompted. 

"No," I choked. "I can't say that. It would be like killing her." 

"You can't kill her because she never lived," the doctor reasoned. 

"But I remember her," I argued desperately. "I remember her weight, her smell, her laugh. I remember she gobbled vanilla yoghurt but turned up her nose at peach. I remember..." 

McAree held up his hand, forestalling what would have been a lengthy soliloquy. "Sherlock, when was Rosie born?" 

"February 4th, 2015," I replied. 

"And what is today's date?" 

It took me a moment to remember. "May 13th, 2010."

"So was Rosie ever born?" McAree asked. 

Crestfallen, I shook my head. 

"I need you to say it, Sherlock," the doctor insisted, not unkindly. 

I had to swallow down a wave of nausea before I could force the words past my teeth. "Rosie was never born." 

"And if we wait for February 4th, 2015, will she be born?" 

I considered that. The circumstances resulting in John meeting Mary would never arise now. Even if we could contrive to recreate the circumstances of her conception, the probability of that one specific sperm winning the race to the egg was vanishingly small. "It's impossible," I conceded. 

"So if I say, 'Rosie,' can you reply with the mantra now?" 

"Did not happen; will not happen," I said precisely, ignoring the pain as I cut out my own heart. 

  


When I came home, John took one look at me and asked, "Rough session?" 

"Brilliant deduction," I snapped, then hauled myself up short. "Sorry. Shouldn't take it out on you." 

John dismissed this with a gentle shake of the head and offered, "Tea?" 

"No." I perched on my chair, and leaned forward. "Let me ask you something. I know it must seem my Experience was one long horror show, but that's nowhere near the truth. Some if it was...good. Brilliant, even. Joyful. Even though it wasn't real, is it wrong to want to hang on to that?"

"As opposed to what?" John frowned. "Is McAree suggesting you delete the entire Experience?" 

"We haven't discussed the Mind Palace yet," I clarified. "And anyway, that's not how deleting works. I delete data: trivia like solar systems, or the names of one's flatmate's endless parade of girlfriends," I teased to see John roll his eyes and snort. "Experiences are different." 

"OK, so you're going to remember the Experience no matter what," John mused. "I actually think that's a good thing. You've already used those memories to come to some pretty important decisions," he pointed out. Doubtless, he was referring to me handing him my stash and announcing I had definitely ruled out ever using again. He continued, "If some of those memories are good ones that bring you joy, I really don't see a downside." 

I nodded and retrieved my laptop so I could noodle about online while John went to start dinner. He's actually quite a serviceable cook, and we shortly sat down to a repast of sausage, warm German potato salad, and steamed buttered cabbage. In keeping with the Deutsche theme, we also each had a beer. It's somewhat heavier fare than I prefer, but I now had two doctors nagging me about the importance of eating regularly, so I managed to put away most of it.

After dinner, John started flipping through TV channels and I curled up on the couch to retreat to my mind palace. I had a memory that brought me joy, and after having a stake driven through my heart earlier that day, I needed to know it was intact. Accordingly, I raced to Rosie's nursery and yanked open the door. To my vast relief, everything was exactly as I had left it, down to the honeybee appliques I'd pasted on the furniture. Rosie herself was tucked under the pink and yellow quilt, her fingers clutching her plushie elephant. As I approached the cot, she stirred fully awake, greeting me with a wide grin, a sliver of pearl just cresting the bottom gum. 

"Hi, Rosebud." I lifted her out and dressed her for the day in jeans and a peach sweatshirt. (One of the joys of the mind palace: I never have to change a nappy.) We played peek-a-boo, then we got out her stacking rings, and when she tired of those, we moved on to her shapes board. For some reason -- perhaps the heavy meal or unaccustomed beer -- I actually fell asleep while watching her puzzle out the difference between a square and a star.

It's not unusual for me to fall asleep in the mind palace, but I almost never dream in there. This time, however, I segued right into a nightmare. Rosie was stripped down to her nappy, and I was trying to get her pyjamas on, but she was having none of it, kicking, squirming, and fussing. 

"Rosie, what's wrong?" I asked in exasperation as I snagged one flailing ankle. Her skin actually _scraped_ my fingers. "So dry," I murmured. "Is that the problem, dry skin itching you? Let me get the lotion." I turned away to look for it, but something glinting on the changing table caught my eye. I bent close to inspect it. 

Sand. 

And now I could see it, a shallow indent along her ankle where my thumb had pressed and sand grains trickling faster and faster from the wound. I reached a trembling finger to touch, and her entire foot sloughed away as her fussy grunts turned into an agonised wail. 

"JOHN!" I screamed, my heart skittering in panic. What to do, apply pressure? No, that was for bleeding. "John, hurry!" 

"I'm here," came John's voice behind me, calm and strong. "Sherlock, wake up." 

What? "John, please, Rosie's dying!" 

I could feel John's hands grasping my wrists, which made no sense because he was behind me, wasn't he? "I've got you," he soothed. "Wake up now." 

And I did, opening my eyes to meet John's concerned frown. My heart was in my throat, and I tried to swallow it down, but I couldn't get any air.

"Sherlock, breathe," John urged. "Out first, OK? Count of five: one...two...three...four...five." He coached me through several breaths until I felt steadier, then retired to the kitchen and returned with a dose of the British panacaea; i.e., a cup of tea. It was strong and sweet with a splash of milk. Perfect. I was about halfway through when he asked, "Who's Rosie?" 

I winced. "John, please. It never happened." 

"No, I know. It's just..." He sighed. "You've said the name before, and you say it with such tenderness. You loved her." 

I could never deny that. "Oh, yes," I breathed. 

"So why don't you find her?" I must have given him an incredulous look, because he insisted, "Why not? Mycroft's been busy rounding up all those criminals you had information on. If he can find them, why can't you find Rosie?" 

I replied, truthfully enough, "She won't be in the country for some time yet." 

"Ah." He grinned. "So tell me about her. What kind of woman could steal Sherlock Holmes' heart?" 

I don't know why I played along. Partly because it was a huge relief to be able to talk about her, partly to share her with her father, however obliquely. "What do you want to know?" 

John shrugged. "Start with the basics. Blonde, brunette, or ginger?" 

"Blonde," I answered. "Big blue eyes." I touched the spot on my right cheek. "Dimple." 

"Probably a statuesque goddess."

I chuckled at that. "No, short. Shorter than you." 

"So a short, blonde, blue-eyed girl with a dimple. She sounds adorable." 

"That's the word," I agreed. "Everybody adored Rosie." 

"What about her personality?" 

I considered. "She had a wonder joie de vivre. She was endlessly curious. I could natter on and on, and she would just drink it in." 

"So she loved to listen and learn, and you love to talk and teach. I can see how that would work." He grinned. "Was she...affectionate?" 

"Very. Big smiles, hugs and kisses every time I saw her." 

"Just hugs and kisses?" he asked, his grin widening. 

"Cuddles," I added. "She was a cuddler." 

"And...?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

It may seem stupid that it took me so long to catch on, but I just couldn't fathom thinking of Rosie in that context. I felt myself flush with anger and embarrassment. "John, no!" 

John's smile froze. "I don't get it. From everything you said, you were absolutely gone on this girl, but when I mention physical intimacy, you look...disgusted. Why?" 

"You're making an assumption," I told him. 

He frowned. "Yeah, I guess I did assume everyone enjoys sex. Sorry, I..." 

"That's not it." I sighed and decided to come clean. "When the Experience ended, the big news on Baker Street was that Rosie had just cut her first tooth."

John's jaw literally dropped. "A baby? Rosie was a baby? Oh, my God! Who was her mother?" 

I did laugh then, a little hysterically, because the thought of explaining Mary to John was just too bizarre. "No one you know," I assured him. 

"Well, she's the one you have to find then, right? I mean, you won't get Rosie back, but if you loved her..." 

"You have no idea what you're saying" I hissed. Finding Mary Morstan would certainly be easy enough: if my brother's minions had done their job, she was either dead or rotting in gaol. Suddenly, my mind was full of her: her smile, her charm, her easy warmth that so skillfully masked her true nature. Under the guise of supporting the friendship between John and me, she proceeded to wreak havoc that nearly brought us to ruin. She even ensured that she could continue her manipulations after her death. Next to her, I am a very amateur sociopath indeed. 

All at once, I could feel her marks on my body. My skin literally crawled where a round puckered hole and a longer surgical scar had testified to the bullet she'd put in me. There was a deep itch in the crook of my left elbow, reminder of the drugs binge she'd instigated. I realised that this would be a good time for the mantra. "It did not happen; it will not happen." I said with as much conviction as I could muster. I heard John say, "oh." in a small voice, but I could spare him no attention. I repeated myself until the crawling sensations receded, then sat back.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," John said contritely. "I shouldn't have pressed. I just thought..." 

"You thought love would complete me," I finished for him. 

He chuckled lowly. "Yeah, I guess." 

"You're making another assumption," I informed him (meaning his assumption I was Rosie's father), "but I shan't tell you what it is. Suffice it to say, I shall never look up Rosie's mother." 

"I get it," he said. "You've been trying so hard to re-orient yourself, and I just knocked you back hard, didn't I?" 

"No," I assured him. "I did that all by myself. I was trying to cherry pick, but it's all integrated. I can't have Rosie without her mother; can't have her mother without....well, without the whole long story that never happened. My unconscious knew," I realised. "My nightmare. I would have described it by saying Rosie turned to sand, but that's not what happened. She was sand all along." I could feel tears prickling. "She was just a wish, knit together from all those 'what if's.'" 

John squeezed my shoulder. "I'm sorry." 

"No, I have to deal with reality. My Experience did not happen, and I can't cling to pieces of it. That way lies madness. Rosie..." I stopped to draw a shuddering breath and wipe away the last tear I would shed on this subject. 

"Rosie was just a dream." 

  


  


-Fin-

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I know. But Sherlock had to choose reality, didn't he? 
> 
> The little girl with the elephant plushie is my oldest granddaughter, Alyssa. She's nearly 16, and "Ellie" still has pride of place in her bedroom.
> 
> Kudos and comments make your friendly neighborhood fanfic writer smile!


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